Always on this line
by penefic
Summary: They could have crossed this line a hundred times. One shot.


Lisbon's doing paperwork. She's got NPR playing through her computer speakers and she's filling out acquisitions and signing declarations. It's the least interesting consequence of an uninteresting arrest.

A few days earlier Jane had said, "Here's what I can tell you." He'd feigned giving it some thought, rubbing the stubble on his chin. "You're looking for a tradesman. He has a boy's skinny calves, a man's shoulders, a man's eyes."

"That's not helpful, Jane."

He'd shrugged as he left. "Look he's probably white. He works out. He doesn't know how to dress. Anyway you'll be fine. I'm off to Oregon, Lisbon. I left the flight details on your computer."

"Seriously, what am I supposed to do, make every tradesman on the list hike up their pants so I can examine their calves?"

"Oh please, it's not a prescription - it's more a conception of the person underneath the skin," he'd said and waved his hands vaguely in the air. "But make Rigsby hike up their pants' legs," he'd added. He'd beamed at her as he left.

Lisbon had almost growled at the closed door.

After Jane had gone she'd found his flight details in a folder labelled betyoumissmealreadylisbon. She'd smiled. She'd tried not to consider how he got access to her computer. He probably saw her password written on the back of her brain along with all her other secrets.

Sure enough the team found the man responsible. He was broad-shouldered and a tradesman. Lisbon didn't check his calves. She doesn't need to prove Jane right any more.

Lisbon looks out into the bullpen as she signs another form. Van Pelt is typing conscientiously at a computer. She's a supervisor's dream with perfect posture. Rigsby lurches in from the break room with half a sandwich and smiles at a comment Van Pelt makes. Cho is out of the office, ably tidying loose ends with the widow and sons. She values each of them. This doesn't take away from the fact that she notices Jane's absence.

She doesn't know why he was going to Oregon. She didn't ask. She's careful to keep some space between them, aware of the dangers of thinking too much of him, of falling victim to his ceaseless, careless charm.

Lisbon looks at her inbox. They could use an admin. She turns a page. On NPR there's a break in a long form article on the inscrutability of Missy Elliot.

"A passenger plane has crashed near Mount Shasta in northern California. The plane caught fire at 30,000 feet. The pilot managed to get the plane to ground before the tail exploded. Of 163 passengers and crew, 98 have been confirmed dead. Flight 3003 was scheduled to land at Sacramento International Airport at 5pm."

As the words sink in, Lisbon feels a rock settle in her stomach. She knows before she checks the folder. Jane was on that flight.

**

"Get me the list of passengers," Lisbon's holding it together. She keeps her voice steady over the phone. "Lisbon, CBI. Yes, I'll wait."

The team's gathered in her office. They've been trying Jane's phone but they can't get a trace on it. The woman from Federal Aviation returns to the line. Lisbon looks up at her team as she hangs up the phone.

"He's not been identified," she says. She doesn't use the word dead. Van Pelt leans against Rigsby for a fraction. Cho places his hands on Lisbon's desk as though he can connect with her through its surface.

Lisbon can rescue Jane from many things. There's nothing she can do about a plane falling from the sky. Still, she has to be there.

"There's a flight to Redding in forty minutes," offers Van Pelt.

"Get me on it," says Lisbon.

The crash site is a gash between trees and mountains. The FAA is here in full force. They've got searchers scouring the wreck; they've set up offices in tents. Victims' families congregate in a tent situated a short distance from the site. There's sobbing and shock and hot tea. Lisbon avoids it. She has many words for Jane; none of them are victim or family.

There's limited telephone reception here. She's used her badge to call her team from the site phone, but the stream of body bags is more than enough to establish that she is not the only one desperate for information. She asks if she can help out and is stationed behind a folding table comparing identification details with the incomplete passenger list and answering questions from white faced family members.

An hour later Jane walks into the tent. He meets her eyes across the room and there's not enough air for her to take a breath. She stands, lets out a sob. He approaches.

"Hi Lisbon," he says.

"Where the hell have you been?" she says and punches him.

His hand is at his nose and his eyes are watering. He's not surprised. "I missed my flight," he answers.

"Your bags were on board," she says.

"I know."

"And we couldn't get hold of you," she says. "The plane went down." Which is hardly worth saying given where they are. Part of her wants to hit him again.

"I know," he says again and she doesn't hit him. She meets his eyes.

"I thought-" she says. She doesn't need to finish. I thought you were dead and I couldn't save you. She extends a hand as though to touch him. They were always right here at the edge of this thing.

"Lisbon, I know," he says. He reaches out and lets his fingers brush against hers. They could have crossed this line a hundred times. She's saved him; he's even saved her. They've watched other people's lives and deaths and always found one another. She folds her fingers around his and feels all the weight of his focus. "I came straight here," he says and smiles at her.

Years later he'll be waiting for her at Sacramento International. She'll scan the crowd swiftly; spot him bent in smiling conversation with an elderly couple and their dazzled daughter. He'll look up. He'll still have an immaculate sense of where she is among a thousand strangers.

Jane is always smiling - at friends, at strangers; at marks; at enemies. The beam that crosses his face on seeing her will give the lie to any smile before it.


End file.
